


Remarkable Heart

by Lovely_Silhouette



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Dante is a fucking wreck, Depression, Eva-centric, Gift Fic, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Taking liberties with Eva's backstory, Vergil is a hot mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 05:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18685468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovely_Silhouette/pseuds/Lovely_Silhouette
Summary: Set in Demonized's "No Matter What They Say", in which Dante and Vergil are sent back into their 7-year old bodies after jumping off the Qliphoth at the end of DMC 5. Can be read as its own separate thing as it was written back before chapter 2 of NMWTS came out.Eva looks to her children - 7 in body and 43 in mind - and finds herself at a loss on what to do. Perhaps a talk with her husband will help put things into perspective.





	Remarkable Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Demonized](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demonized/gifts).
  * Inspired by [No Matter What They Say](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508981) by [Demonized](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demonized/pseuds/Demonized). 



Dante is sitting on the sill seat of their library’s bay window, listless eyes staring out into the enclosed courtyard of their home. The silence is jarring, when a mere hour before he was screaming as if someone had ripped his heart from his chest.

Eva is not sure which she prefers, watching him from the railing of the upper balcony. The sudden, deafening quiet or the ringing cries of anguish so deep she cannot hope to sooth it. Her youngest is in pain, her bright-natured, mischievous Dante, and it galls her that her presence cannot be the balm once was.

It hasn’t been a balm in far too long, in fact. Eva watches him and sees the shadow of the man he would become in that other time, tired and threadbare and empty but for the feelings of the past, hanging like a dark pall over shoulders far too small to bear it.

A sharp pain twinges at her heart, causing her hands to clench on the brass railing. Her painted lips purse to stop their downward turn. Like this, she can scarcely see her little boy in him. Dante once shown brighter than the sun, dancing on feet lighter than air and with a laugh more beautiful than all the songs of all the birds. Eva has memories of Vergil, try as he might to keep up his adorable mimicry of their father’s stoicism, unable to help but be pulled into his brother’s orbit time and again.

This is still Dante, her heart whispers. She sees it in the way he still looks at them like they are his world, and how he tries so hard to assure them that all will be well in the days to come. Even so, there is a weight to his gaze that was not there before. A maturity and world-weariness that speaks of years that the boy she knew did not have. He looks at her books and he understands what they mean now.

This is still Dante, but he is not her Dante. Her Dante is little more than seven, and not a man who endured her loss, his father’s loss and his brother’s loss and spent decades in mourning. It is selfish of her, but Eva finds she misses her little boy ever more as the days go on.

The door to the library creeks open quietly. Vergil peeks into the room, so uncharacteristically tentative as he looks around. The skittish, almost jittery light that sparked to life in his eyes since Dante’s poor reaction to his question earlier hasn’t faded in the slightest. That, too, makes Eva’s heart ache fiercely. Dante is not the only one changed by a future that should never have been. Vergil, sweetly, dutiful Vergil, is now a solitary figure, holding himself at a distance despite the way Eva can feel his heart yearn. Shame and self-appointed duty are what pulls him from her arms these days instead of curiosity and passion, and Eva selfishly misses the boy he used to be as well.

Their eyes meet briefly. Forcing a smile on her face, Eva nods towards the windows in answer to his silent question. Vergil gives her a polite nod in thanks. With a deep breath, he seemingly wills something within to solidify. Only when his back is straight and his shoulders are set does he make his way over to his brother.

She watches as Vergil approaches Dante as one would a wounded creature. Years of her dearly departed father and grandmother pounding manners into her head keep her from eavesdropping on her children, but lingering fear of another poor reaction keeps her from giving them complete privacy. Dante doesn’t seem to notice Vergil’s approach initially, but when he does, his response is to flash another of those smirks of his that are so good as misdirecting their attention.

Eva is beginning to loathe those smirks. If there is one thing that she dislikes about the man her youngest has become, it is that he has become so thoroughly adept in hiding himself away from those who care about him.

Nerves prickle under her skin pleasantly moments before a gentle arm wraps around her waist. Eva allows herself to breathe in the familiar scent of cedar and fire smoke, leaning back into her husband’s strong chest. His chin brushes against her cheek, his stubble scratching gently. This close, his innate power sweeps over her, easing the stress that was mounting into the beginnings of a headache. She feels safe in his arms - like she is twenty-one again and high on a love that leaves her invincible.

Sparda gazes down at their sons, unreadable but for the crease in his brow. Her beloved has always had trouble expressing himself well, so Eva rubs her gloved thumb over his wrist and waits.

When he speaks, it is slow, measured and careful to make his meaning clear. “I find myself… frustrated.”

Eva hums encouragingly. “With what?”

“I can see Vergil and Dante suffering,” he says, his brow furrowing deeper, eyes never leaving his children. “I can help Vergil sharpen his resolve against his pain. He responds well to direction and having an objective, and having a purpose seems to give him a small measure peace. Dante, however… Dante does not see things the same way. He takes on purpose as one does a burden. He is… careless with himself. I have tried examining why, but I can’t seem to understand it.”

Sparda falls silent again. Intuition and experience whisper in her ear that there is more he has not said, so Eva remains quiet.

Her patience pays off when strong shoulders seem to slump against her. “I suppose I am frustrated with… my inability to help them as I wish to. There is nothing I can fight to take their pain away, nor can I erase their past-futures.”

Her heart aches once more. “Are you frustrated as a father, a demon knight, or as a warrior king?”

The distinction is an important one to make. Demons take pride in their offspring like a man takes pride in his livestock or his hunting dogs. Kings take pride in their ability to lead and to provide for their people. Neither are so personal and so invested as a parent - as a father to his children.

Sparda is at once King, Demon and Father. Trial and error during the course of their courtship and marriage have taught Eva that if she wishes to understand him, she must know what perspective he speaks from.

“As a father,” he decides after a moment of rolling the thought around.

“I see,” Eva replies simply, feeling older than her twenty-nine years.

Sparda turns his icy blue eyes to her, a flicker of empathy passing across his handsome face. “You are frustrated as well.”

“I am.” Eva turns so that she might face her husband more readily and watch their children, feeling Sparda’s other arm brace her back. Below, Vergil seems to be getting frustrated with Dante’s persistent closed-off expression and body language, but they aren’t shouting yet. Eva will count that as a plus for now.

“I am frustrated with my own helplessness. I miss the children they used to be more and more as the days go by and I feel horrible about that,” she tells her husband honestly. There is no reason to hide herself from him when he has given himself to her for all of her fragile mortal life. “But, more than anything, I am afraid.”

“Afraid,” Sparda asks, faintly alarmed. “Of what? Mundus?”

Far from it, actually. In her mind, that overhanging blade hasn’t even begun to swing. “I fear that I am right about what plagues Dante. That it is something that may never heal.”

Memories of her school years come to mind, bringing with them images of her dear best friend. Eva feels a lump form in her throat, remembering happy days of playing in the park, attending classes and eating at their favorite ice cream parlor in the days leading up to the accident that would claim her friend’s mother’s life.

Her dear friend withering slowly, smiles and laughter that become brittle and false. The days where they would eat ice cream becoming fewer and fewer, and when playing in the park becomes a distant memory. The last time she ever spoke to her friend was a big, unnecessary fight, and two days later Eva read about the tragedy of young Trisha Morrison in the morning paper.

Months obsessively researching things like “depression”, “mental illness”, “post traumatic stress” and “survivor’s guilt”. All in a futile effort to understand why Trisha was not able to live in this world with Eva anymore.

“You know that in humans, there are illnesses of the mind,” Eva says, somber, clearing her throat quietly so as to not disturb the twins. “They can be brought on by tragedy; by overwhelming suffering and pain, or even just the simple loss of stability and comfort. Have you heard of depression?”

“I have, though only in passing,” he says, looking attentive as he always does when she needs to explain matters of the heart to him. She does not begrudge him this, for he is not human, and emotions do not come easily to his kind if they come at all.

“Depression is…” Eva purses her lips in concentration. How to explain this in a way he will understand… “Think of depression like a great weight. One that is relentless in its ability to press you down low. It takes up all of your energy. It poisons your thoughts and your memories. It thrives on your attempts to keep to a normal life and turns every doubt, every mistake, every insecurity, every bad memory into seemingly insurmountable obstacles with which to bury you even further.”

Below, Dante looks at Vergil with a exhausted, impassive expression on his face. If she looks hard enough, Eva thinks she sees Vergil trembling ever so faintly.

The lump in Eva’s throat threatens to thicken. “In its most severe forms, it is a withering of the heart and the soul. The mind and body continue to live on until they are no longer able to.”

As soon as they leave her lips, Eva wants to take the words back. Sparda tenses against her side, understanding what she is not saying as he shifts his weight restlessly. The hand on her shoulder remains gentle, but his other reflexively clenches open and closed, as if seconds from summoning his eponymous sword. Only with her does he allow his fear to show, and right now his face is twisted into a scowl of distress.

Honesty is both freeing and cruel. She cannot take back the fear she instilled, but she can guide her husband’s face to rest in her hair and hold him. It is the closest thing to an apology his pride will accept.

His other arm envelops Eva into a proper embrace. “I… I do not know the ways of the heart as you do. Is there nothing we can do?”

Eva wracks her mind, trying to remember everything she learned in her research. There are more blanks than she prefers. Perhaps it is time to expand her library once again. “We must try,” she tells him, turning her face so that their foreheads align and that they may breathe the same air. “We may help, but Dante is the one who must decide to change things. It will take time, and persistent effort. Dante has the mind of a man now, but he is still our son. We cannot let his self-destructive habits persist, and he must be reminded every day that he is not alone anymore. There are some things that might never heal, but...”

Eva only means to turn away from her husband for a moment, to glance at their children and make sure they are no closer to another outburst. What she sees, however, causes the breath in her lungs to seize.

On the window sill seat of the library’s bay window, Vergil sits against the wall. Sitting in his lap is Dante, who curls into his brother’s body like it’s the only shelter in a thundering storm. Their arms are wrapped tightly around each other. For an instant, Eva doubts that even Sparda’s full demonic power could pry them apart.

They haven’t even held hands since coming back from the future that must not be, and now they are entwined so thoroughly that Eva has to rely on the color of their shirts to tell them apart.

Like the first rays of dawn, hope illuminates Eva from within. It takes effort not to cry and ruin her mascara. She hates applying mascara.

The smile that curls her lips is wide and, as her grandmother would say, disturbingly unlady-like, positively gleeful with relief. Sparda must sense her change of mood. When he looks down at their boys, he nearly lists sideways as his tension drains away.

“But... I think they can make it,” Eva says finally. Playfully, she plucks off his monocle and kisses her husband just because she feels like it.

They stay like that for a while, Eva with her fingers tracing his jaw and Sparda’s hands cradling her waist and the back of her head. His eyes are beautiful, and they look upon her as if she is all the world.

“As always, I defer to you in matters of the heart, my love,” he swears to her and seals his promise with a kiss.

Eva knows of love: love of her family - departed as they are, love of her friends, love of her work and her research. Love of her sons, both new and old. Love comes in all flavors, and each one tastes of contentment and fulfillment in its own way. But no love Eva has ever tasted has or will ever taste the same as the love she has for her husband, her warrior king, her demon knight.

Nothing will ever take this away from her. She won’t let them. Sparda. Dante. Vergil. They are hers to protect. Hers to cherish. Hers to look after and lean on.

If that makes her selfish, then so be it.

Reluctantly, Eva pulls herself back. “In the meantime, we still have preparations to undergo, don’t we? The house still needs to be properly warded.”

Sparda lights up with wicked humor, lips quirking into a mischievous grin. “Will you be needing holy water?”

“Bite your tongue,” she snaps, but the quiet laughter that sneaks out betrays her.

(Once upon a time, Eva had been nineteen and eager to prove herself - a self-studied demonologist armed only with her grandfather’s outdated books and too much cleverness and cunning to stay confined in decent human society. She worked too hard and studied too long to put up with anyone talking down to her, so when a seemingly-ageless scholar in a purple coat challenged her on the ingredients to make a decent ward, she snapped right back.

That scholar made her draw up the ward around a chair right then and there and then walked right through it, his full demonic glory revealed. Eva knew she should have been afraid as every other being in that room had been, but she couldn’t bring herself to be more than dreadfully indignant that he dared to prove her wrong.

He loaned her a book and challenged her to figure out what she had done incorrectly. Turns out that holy water doesn’t mix well with wards that don’t rely on three, five and seven-point diagrams complete with other implements of the same religion. She got him during the next meeting, and has been chasing him ever since.)

Eva’s smile drops as a somewhat sobering thought occurs to her. “I may have need to draw upon your power, Sparda. If Mundus is as strong as your legends imply, then all our countermeasures will need to be reinforced as much as possible.”

Any other demon would spit and snarl at the idea of their power being syphoned away into such imperfect solutions, especially if it meant becoming more vulnerable. Sparda merely tilts his head in acknowledgement, his gaze drifting down towards where Dante and Vergil still sit wrapped around one another.

And if she happens to see how Vergil looks upon Dante, like a warrior to their lord and a demon to his love, well… They best be glad she’s studied demons quite thoroughly, or she might have something to say about that.

Still, if they try to get up to anything funny before they’re of age, she will be stepping in. They have the minds of men one and half times her age, but they are in the bodies of seven-year olds.

“You will have it, should it prove necessary,” Sparda assures, replacing his monocle delicately. “Until the boys are older, I can’t afford to pour too much of my power into things that won’t yield appropriate results.”

Eva nods, understanding. Calculations, diagrams and notes are already flashing through her head. She still has the blueprints to several half-completed wards hidden among the books in their bedroom, doesn’t she? Maybe she can tweak a few of them to include some… _nasty_ surprises.

Sparda places one more kiss on the malefic smirk that crosses her face, unholy delight and desire gleaming in his suddenly red eyes. He tucks a lock of sunflower hair behind her ear. “Be safe, My Queen. If you have to leave the house, take Luce and Umbra with you. We have much to do and little time to do it in.”

Eva refuses to be like the Eva from the future that will never be. _She_ died gruesomely and alone, leaving her sons behind to face a cruel world before their time. That Eva lost her husband, lost her home, lost her life’s work.

For her family’s sake, she will not die. They need her common sense if they ever hope to heal and stay whole.

If this Mundus wants her family so badly, then he will have to pry them from Eva’s cold, dead fingers.


End file.
